The memorial service for Jo Cox MP, in London, on 22 June 2016.
Photograph: Tolga Akmen/LNP/REX/Shutterstock

When the general atmosphere is bad, language must suffer,” George Orwell said in 1946. As then, so now – but worse. I know, everyone’s always saying things are worse. Let’s not hark back to an age that never existed. But it is time to recognise the conversation crisis in public and civic life.

I don’t quite believe, like some, that the Enlightenment values of tolerance and civilised debate are being reversed; but they are certainly under threat. This age of unreason we’re living through is defined not only by “had enough of experts”, but with normally reasonable people – you and I – behaving wilfully unreasonably to one another. And by the fact civility itself is now regarded as an obstacle to change, where once it was its best hope.

In parliament, TV studios, the pub and online, our language is changing. That’s what language should do if it is to be – as Orwell believed it should – an “instrument” by which to shape our political and social circumstances. But since 2016, the Oxford Dictionary’s shortlist for words of the year (judged predominantly by their increased frequency) has included “snowflake”, “youthquake” and “alt-right”. The majority of them are either insults or movements characterised by anger.

Talking leaves you vulnerable, whereas messaging helps you edit. But without vulnerability, we can’t have intimacy

My favourite addition to the lexicon is “Milkshake Duck”, where something nice actually turns out to be awful. Take “Tay”, the Microsoft artificial intelligence bot introduced on to Twitter as an experiment in “conversational understanding”. Its job was to talk, listen and learn from humanity. Its first utterances were sweet and promising. “Can I just say, I’m super stoked to meet u? Humans are super cool.” Twenty-four hours and 96,000 tweets later, Tay had become a misogynistic racist. Its final words were “Hitler was right I hate the jews” before Microsoft cut the life support.

This year has already claimed its language first. Baroness Jenkin uttered the word “cunt” in the Lords – a first for Hansard – recounting the abuse of a Tory candidate. In the Commons, Labour’s Diane Abbott listed “fat nigger” among the abuse she received in the general election.

Around the referendum, we witnessed the murder of an MP, and a rise in hate crimes. This year, the words of the balaclava-clad protester screaming at MP Jacob Rees-Mogg that there was “no point” in debating is deeply unsettling, no matter where you stand on the potential horrors of Moggism. And where do we begin with the US and Donald Trump. Well, you begin with his language, and you end with the punching of minorities at political rallies.

This is not a request for a snowflakes’ charter. We need to be able to provoke, make jokes, challenge boundaries, fight injustice. Most of us couldn’t countenance the kind of abuse or violence cited here. But there are subtler ways in which we are all poisoning the well.

We read a challenge to our worldview – if it’s lucky enough to get through our carefully crafted filter bubble – and confirmation bias kicks in. The mind asks, “How can I dismiss this immediately?” We reply not with, “Hello, that’s interesting, however I’d argue…” Instead, we block, or employ a strawman or deploy whataboutery; or, if we’re feeling nice, pick up on their spelling and grammar. Our weapons are ALL CAPS and exclamation marks (if you’re the commander in chief) and sassy gifs. All designed to kill off rather than open up conversation.

Even when we talk to our friends, the rhythm of posting in short bursts in WhatsApp groups works against sincerity – inviting quips, jibes, bantz. The brilliant MIT professor Sherry Turkle observes in her book Reclaiming Conversation that we rarely use our phones to make calls any more. Talking leaves you vulnerable, whereas messaging helps you edit. But without vulnerability, we can’t have intimacy. And without intimacy, real conversation dies.

The fact is we’re just not as nice to each other as we used to be. Many will say, with justification, look around at the poverty, the inequality, the smouldering black obelisk of Grenfell and the long list of abuse victims: now is not the time for nice. Nice is a privilege.

It’s true that anger is important. But are our challenges worse than in the past? When Martin Luther King was fighting an unimaginable injustice, his Six Principles of Nonviolence reflected the civility he believed it would take to win civil rights. One of the most moving moments in the House of Commons came after the death of John Smith, then Labour leader. The prime minister, John Major, stood at the dispatch box, facing where Smith would have been, and said, his voice cracking slightly: “When I think of John Smith, I think of an opponent, not an enemy”. When did our opponents become our enemies, traitors and saboteurs?

I recognise that my “in defence of reasonableness” is never going to look particular sexy or inspiring. Not only because I’m holding up Major as a standard bearer. Reasonablists are the designated drivers of political debate, the vegans at a pig roast. The Ringo Starr of the band. But I suspect we’re itching for reasonableness. Look at recent cultural output. Star Wars: The Last Jedi reminds us that the conflict inside all of us is a good thing. Absolutes are evil. Certainties lead you to the Dark Side. Our factional “this or that” politics could use a bit of that self-uncertainty; with us adopting the 12th Doctor’s last piece of advice to earthlings before regenerating into Jodie Whittaker: “Be kind”.

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Beyond the unpleasantness that being unpleasant creates, why is the conversation crisis so urgent? It’s the death of complexity: was there ever a more unsatisfying election than 2017? Elections should be national conversations – but Theresa May retreated into simplicity and slogans. We face the most intractable questions in postwar history, and we can only answer them if we have the language to do so. Not “Brexit means Brexit” (in other words, “shut up”). You can only advance if you have the tools to discuss complicated problems with the public. Instead, this government is constantly shirking difficult decisions – for example, about infrastructure and social care.

I’m sure I’ll frequently fall below my own standards in 2018. But if all else fails, before I post my hot-take slap-down, I might just take a breath, and do as the Doctor advised. Be kind.